


On the Canal (working title, will be changed once done)

by Ariel_x



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, London, Molly has a rich fantasy life, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes is an idiot, Sherlock gets his comeuppance from John, Sherlolly - Freeform, it's for a case Molly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_x/pseuds/Ariel_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock messed up. He was blindsided.  It isn't <i>something</i> this time, it's everything. John is actively ignoring him, while trying to build his new life with Mary, Molly is teetering on the edge of something -- and it's nothing good.  A convoluted case of a headless corpse found in a London canal only complicates matters. </p>
<p>Post Season 3.</p>
<p>  <i>A perfect summer afternoon, Molly thought.  Wouldn’t it be nice if they were out here for a stroll? A leisurely walk, exploring the city, for the pleasure of it. In Molly’s mind’s eye she felt the imaginary strolling Sherlock reaching for her hand.  No, she sighed.  What strolling Sherlock? What exploring promenade? They were there to see a corpse.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t do fluff, I do Russian novel-level angst. Oh, angst we got. 
> 
> \-- for other disclaimers, see _End Notes_ \--

*

They walked east along the canal, quickly, purposefully, past the low houseboats parked along the banks.  Sherlock looked nowhere but straight ahead, while Molly kept peering into dark windows and ogling whimsical boat decorations.  Her feet carried her of their own accord, barely keeping pace with Sherlock’s wide stride. Calm green stagnant water, a line of flamboyant and quirky boats that seemed to stretch forever, a flagstone path: none of it was a part of Molly’s familiar London.

A gaggle of teenagers walked past them, laughing and gesticulating wildly.  A bicyclist passed.  The sun was too bright, the trees too green and the air annoyingly not muggy.  A perfect summer afternoon, Molly thought.  Wouldn’t it be nice if they were out here for a stroll? A leisurely walk, exploring the city, for the pleasure of it. In Molly’s mind’s eye she felt the imaginary strolling Sherlock reaching for her hand.  No, no --  what strolling Sherlock? What exploring promenade? They were there to see a corpse.

“So much for bucolic scenery,” said Molly.   They dived under a limp stretch of police tape and came to an abrupt stop next to a plastic sheet-covered lump.  A body floated up by one of the boats in the City Road Basin.  “A body,” they said, but it was actually a trunk, with some of its limbs attached.   Whoever it was, he was missing a head, his right arm and foot, and didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.  None have been found yet, and two police divers, with all their gear on the deck of a small police cutter, took turns walking the floor of the main canal and its appendage.

*

“Right. So far so obvious,” quipped Sherlock after a uniform lifted the sheet.  Molly pursed her lips and rolled her eyes.  He couldn’t help himself, poor dear.  If he were wearing his Belstaff, this would be the perfect time to pop the collar.

Sherlock pretended he didn’t see Molly’s frown as he crouched and leaned in to examine the bloated torso, a magnifying glass in his hand undoubtedly by magic apparition.  “He’s been in the water for no more than a week,” said Molly.  “Unlikely he drowned,” her mouth quivered as she looked at Sherlock, “but we’ll know for sure when I examine him properly.”

“You’re looking for a missing bar proprietor, former army, probably married, childless, ” said Sherlock straightening up.  Gregson was jutting fiercely in his notebook. The lead tip broke, Gregson cursed and fished another pencil from his breast pocket. “Unlikely out of area.  Whoever murdered him, knew him well-enough or thought far in advance to get rid of too obviously identifying marks.  Tattoos and more prominent scars” – Sherlock pointed at a small round depression in man’s remaining leg.  “Ask about a missing barman with a tattoo or a scar on the back of his left hand, and you’ll have a name.  Once you find bar, we’ll find the killer.”  He pulled out his phone, thumbing the screen, and held it up to Gregson’s face.  “Also, if you stumble on this saw discarded in the vicinity, do try to keep your prints off of it and text me."

With that, he turned on his heel and was off, typing into his cell phone as he marched away. No doubt he will now scour the nearby establishments, thought Molly, stepping into the ambulance and strapping herself into a seat next to the body bag on its ride to Barts' morgue.  

*

Yes, Sherlock was stalking off to look for a bar.  This neighborhood was relatively well-off, schools and chic new restaurants with outdoor seating, but upstream -- just a bit upstream -- the area was iffy enough to have a proprietor vanish and no one notice.  The problem was rather interesting, he thought, but the case will be over too quickly -- he already had a list of eligible establishments.  And then… his head jerked upward and eyes darted as he forced himself to mentally check-mark that the leaves on the trees to the right were green (of course they were green), and their reflection made the canal to his left green too (obviously), and that the boat he’s just passed, the one with faded chinese lanterns, belonged to a retired couple, who’ve been lucky to retire in their early thirties, and the next one -- that one was owned by a single man, oh, probably forty-seven-ish, who most definitely lived in a town apartment and kept a chic river boat for recreational use, undoubtedly to impress his one-night stands, yes, and....  

Nowadays he had to force-feed his head with useless observations and automatic deductions, simply to keep the darkness at bay.  He should really be grateful for this case: he spent the last three days plastered to his couch, trying to finish a nineteenth century treatise, _On Obscure Diseases of the Brain, and Disorders of the Mind_ , which initially attracted him by a bizarre chapter titled “Morbid Phenomena of Intelligence.”  The book was outdated rubbish, but in addition to having a normally rational mind, he was rather obstinate.  Once he decided that the book on antiquated pseudo-physiology of the brain is what he’ll read to destruct himself from… all else, he would do precisely that, utility be damned. Besides, it was mildly amusing.  At least he wasn’t smoking.   As the thought occurred, he absentmindedly pulled Marlboro lights out of his right jacket pocket and lit a cigarette.  Isn’t it nice to be outdoors? Things haven’t been exactly peachy.

*

In fact, things have been extraordinary difficult.  More difficult than when Sherlock pranked John to inform him of his un-deadness.

Before and after the fall, that insufferable prick, that arrogant sod (John’s jaw would set from sadness, affection and lack of a 'reset' button) – he missed a detail here and there, he made mistakes, but they weren’t life-alteringly monumental.  That Magnussen business turned everything on its head -- the blasted dead shark was right: the mistake was colossal and enormous; it created unbearable, crippling secrets. While he was good at keeping secrets, John was quite awful when a decision on how to act on them was required. He felt paralyzed, and didn’t quite know what to do other than pretend he forgot his wife was a former assassin and his best friend shot one of the most powerful men in Britain point blank in the head: any action acknowledging these events could be devastating.  Most importantly, John didn’t know what to do about the biggest, the most disturbing, the darkest and scariest secret of all: his own not knowing if he still believed in Sherlock Holmes.  Therefore, as it happens, John  shoved everything aside and went about his business with fists and, to the chagrin of his dentist, teeth tightly clenched. Every day he went to work at the surgery. Every day he came home, kissed and cuddled and bathed his little girl.  He kissed and cuddled and talked about the day with his wife.  Then, when all the chores were done, and he had a chance to rub his temples and pinch the bridge of his nose at the thought of things he wasn't going to think about, he would go to sleep, and sleep, and wake up, sometimes because his baby daughter would be up, and sometimes because he would have nightmares. And in the morning, it would start all over.  

All the while ignoring texts from his best friend, which came with alarming regularity, and the content of which remained rather maddeningly unanswerable.

  
**intact body, liquified inner organs. care to know how it was done? -SH**

**just left a sterile hotel room. not a single print or hair, no furniture out of place, locked from inside, victim hanged from the chandelier. clever! -SH**

**old bookseller near picadilly; rare volume: human deformity in relation to obstetrics; collection of fascinating tilt angles of vertebrae to pelvic bone. you want it? -SH**

etc, etc, etc. A few times a week, sometimes every day.

John knew exactly what Sherlock was doing, but he ignored it, and -- not to be rude -- sent texts of his own, less frequently, but sufficiently often -- to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson -- with little tidbits about Emma -

**we had a first smile today, Mrs. H -- come visit**

**Emma’s now spending over ten minutes at a time on her belly. we’re so proud -JW**

**Emma’s had her two month shots today. Better than expected -JW**

And Mrs. Hudson did come visit, and cooed and ahhhed, and invited them back -- but John and Mary always had an excuse not to show. In the meantime, Sherlock continued to answer, or, rather, not answer, in his maddening manner.

*

_“The mind may be in a state of morbid  --_

_1\. Exaltation_  
_2\. Depression_  
_3\. Aberration_  
_4\. Impairment_

_These condition of unhealthy intelligence, exhibit in their origin, progress, and termination, a variety of shades and degrees of disturbance….. “  (ODoBaDotM, p. 27)_

Sherlock pushed the door of an obscure little bar in an alley off Balmes Road. The bell over the door tinkled bleakley once, then halted.  The bar -- dingy, dark, small, with television droning above, was completely empty.  No one sat at the counter; no one stood behind it. There was an empty beer glass on one of the three wobbly tables along the wall.    The place was deserted.  

“‘Lo!” announced Sherlock loudly. “Anyone ‘ere?”

Silence.

He walked over to the peeling wooden door next to the bar and pushed it open.  It swung inward noisily, into a short unlit corridor, and Sherlock patted the wall on his left for a switch.  There it was.  He flipped the switch on and off a few times, but nothing happened -- the light didn’t come on.  “‘Lo!” he yelled out again. And again, he was greeted with nothing but silence.  He listened for a few seconds, and was rewarded with a sound of glass breaking somewhere close, somewhere to his right. Of course. He pushed another door and found himself in a room with dirty curtains (closed, so the room was rather dark), an old flowery sofa (rags? clothing? -- probably clothes -- and scrunched-up blankets covering most of it), a dining table full of dirty dishes (the food was at least a day old), and a recliner, which was presently occupied by a mousy gray-haired woman of about fifty.  

Sherlock closed the door behind him, cutting out the television drone off completely, and took in the details.  The woman before him was almost imperceptibly rocking back and forth in her chair, her hair coming out of a loose braid.  On her person she wore a nondescript mustard jumper and old brownish slacks, both very old and nearly threadbare, and on her face -- clear signs of a heavy drinker.  She held a half-empty bottle of rum in her left hand, her arm straight on the recliner handle.  A shattered glass lay on the dirty hardwood floor under the hovering bottle.  The woman gave no signs she heard anyone enter as she continued to stare into the distance. Sherlock’s eyes continued to flash about the room.  

There was quite a bit to take in.  A cupboard with a broken door and an assortment of dishes, a desk in the corner with paper (bills?) piled on high, and -- what’s that? -- another door, nearly concealed by several unfinished particle board panels leaning on the wall right by it.   Presently, there was a creaky noise  from just beyond that other door, and Sherlock’s first impulse was to jump across the room to grab whoever made the outside hinges creak ---   But then, in a split moment he thought better of it -- it was a bit too late, and besides, it was immaterial -- he’ll know soon enough.  He cocked his head.  Speaking of which --  

“Mrs. Oldacre, I presume,” he said.  

The woman pursed her lips and nodded, her gaze unwavering.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly continues to dream, Sherlock broods, John is missed. The headless corpse does have an identity, but why wouldn't Sherlock inform the Yard?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you thought this will never continue, huh? but here i am, not in a blink of an eye, exactly, but we're still in 2014! Yay!  
> Happy Christmas, Hannukah and New Year, and thank you so very much for your subscriptions and kudos!!! -- <3

_Morbid phenomenon of attention_

_“The existence of symptoms like those previously detailed, conclusively establishes that the brain is quite unfit for any degree of sustained labour, and that conditions of perfect REPOSE, and states of prolonged and uninterrupted REST are essential to a restoration of its enfeebled energies” (ODoBaDotM, p. 344)_

_“It is a tale_  
_Told by an idiot”_  
_Macbeth_

Her fingertips traced the curve of his throat. She felt for the little imperfections, the skin slightly raised over the birthmarks. Molly's eyes were closed, but she clearly saw dark imprints on alabaster-white -- and she counted. One, two, another one, there, three.

She was whispering, exhaling the numbers --- and felt Sherlock's hand move under her breasts, fingers barely stroking up, forcing her to feel on a brink of an explosion if she didn’t get more -- an impossible, cruel man -- his other hand crept up the inside of her thigh, torturously slow. 

He was kissing her roughly, and she stopped being able to control what she was doing, her mouth agape, one of her hands now holding on to his back, another – gripping his curls. “You, you, always you,” he whispered in her hair, but she heard him, and moved to turn her head, drawn to his lush mouth.... 

Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzzzzzz! Said her alarm clock. Five-thirty. Wakey-wakey.

Molly groaned, squeezed her eyes as tightly as was humanly possible and palmed the clock. The pale light of the morning still sipped in, mocking her best efforts. Fine. Her feet touched the floor, she lifted the duvet -- all without opening her eyes -- the dream was too dear, and she couldn’t just part with it, she had to make it linger -- if she could only keep it dark under her eyelids a few moments more. 

That's it, just another day -- she padded barefoot to the bathroom, used the toilet without turning the light, flushed, washed hands, flipped the switch. A tired woman with mussed brown hair frowned at her from above the sink. What was she doing? She's moved on, remember? She cupped a hand under the cold water tap and rinsed her face. There, all better. Good morning, sweetheart. 

*  
The rest was routine, and therefore uneventful. Breakfast, tea, a walk, a short tube ride, a crowded car, barely reaching the leather strap while balancing a handbag and a Kindle in her free hand, people streaming around her, scrambling to leave the train on time, another short walk… 

By the time Molly reached her office and put on the lab coat all of her thoughts were focused on the day ahead. She had four scheduled autopsies, a staff planning meeting, a meeting with a family of the junkie she autopsied last week, and yesterday's beheaded corpse to present at the afternoon rounds. A light load, and she would definitely be seeing Sherlock -- the blood toxicology results and results from tissue samples she's sent to the lab were expedited, and both folders were on her desk now -- Sherlock would surely want to take a look. She wasn’t going to be nervous -- it was all a part of the routine. Uneventful.

Routine as it was, the day passed quickly. At three o'clock, time for rounds, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Molly listened to presentations, dispensed advice and asked leading questions, and after all of her fellows and residents finished, she went ahead to close with her own case -- 

“And now, for dessert,” she said as her colleagues gathered around the slab featuring the headless canal dweller, “Mr. Smith, found in Regents Canal a day prior. Spent there about three days, a week tops, hard to tell because it's been so warm lately. Early stage decomposition. Missing limbs, head, all severed using a reciprocating saw, post mortem.” She motioned to what used to be sickeningly clean cuts. “Bone length analysis place our subject at about forty five, forty six years of age. He was diabetic, impotent, an alcoholic, but we have the lab results, and he is negative on common drugs, no signs of poison, no internal abnormalities. We also found no traces of gunpowder burns anywhere on the body, practically no injuries, other than the apparent cut off limbs and head and a thin, nearly invisible twelve centimeter scratch on the right brachium.” Molly lifted her head to walk to the other side of the bench and saw Sherlock perched on one of the lab stools, just behind her audience, but she already knew that. Knew the moment he entered the pit. 

She gave him a curt nod and continued. “Other than that -- no prominent birthmarks, one thirteen millimeter scar -- here. Now, for the cause of death. Our Mr. Smith had clog-ish arteries, fifty-five percent blocked or thereabout, was fished out of a river but he didn’t die of a heart attack or a stroke, and he didn’t drown. The manner of death is consistent with a trauma to the head, but we wouldn’t know until this man -- “ she smiled and jerked her head toward Sherlock -- “does his magic bit.” 

She walked around to stand at the foot of the table. "Questions?"

 

*  
A man whose face was hidden under a shaggy beard that rendered age indeterminable, stood before them, dressed in all black -- a hoodie and remains of a pair of slacks (front fabric from just above the knee to just above the ankles violently torn, displaying prodigiously dirty calves and knee caps). 

"And did he ever come out?" Sherlock's expression was passive. If Molly didn't know any better, she would've thought the whole interview was perfunctory. 

"Nah," said the man. "Didn't see. Might've slipped past me, though, shoulda asked Maddie to switch, but she was poorly, old girl."

Sherlock’s hands were securely tucked into his coat’s upper pockets. Yes, he was wearing his coat today, never mind it was still August. Molly lifted her eyes. The popped collar beautifully accentuated his cheek lines. Sherlock’s neck was bare, and oh so vulnerable -- there was that brown dot on the right side -- Molly felt heat rising in her own cheeks -- and shifted her focus to look back at the man before them, or, rather, his naked knees. 

“Fine. I will take care of an alternate. In the meantime -- “ Sherlock thrust some paper into man’s hand. “You know how to find me.”

An hour earlier, after the rounds, after she handed him the folders and let him, against all proper procedure, peruse documents at will while she was out changing, he, in his usual manner, assumed. Obviously, it was a given she would do whatever he bid. 

There is an obvious, in fact a crying need for consulting detectives to stand in front of changing rooms, watch the door, and be clearly annoyed -- when she stepped out of the locker room, all business and buttons up, she almost collided with the immovable wall of him. “Done?” his lips were pursed and he was looking at her too intensely for comfort. All she could do was scrunch her eyebrows and mumble -- “Right, “ he said, “you’re coming with me.” 

She did, and after a short trek through rather appalling labyrinth of sixties-era tenements, here they were, apparently done questioning the street miner-wannabe. Sherlock’s hand was now between her shoulder blades, gently but firmly guiding her forward and forcing her heart to beat quite a bit faster. Damn him, why was she so sensitive to his touch, even through layers of fabric, and let’s face it, there aren’t... “We should get a cab,” she heard, and in the next moment they were seated inside one, summer London streets flushing by the window. 

For a while, she was completely at ease with the silence, but then she wasn’t. 

“Sherlock,” -- she started, only to be interrupted by his rapid fire delivery of "Yes, you want to know why we just spent a half-hour interrogating a pyromaniac with kidney problems. Reasonable. You see, Molly, Madame Oldacre of the Red Cock, had a husband. Yesterday she denied it, but make no mistake, three days ago she became a widow, aaand -- “ Sherlock stopped dramatically to draw a fresh breath and to look Molly in the eye -- “by her own able hand. Why by her own hand, you might ask? Well, either that or hire a killer or have an accomplice. Now. No money; no evidence of money; no evidence of underworld contacting her; hard to find a killer if you don’t have leads; unlikely hired; an accomplice? -- few community ties, no friends, neighbors hate them and the establishment -- regular police reports filed, I've checked; therefore, a secret accomplice attached to her in what way? No children. Haven’t unearthed any relatives nearby. May be a lover. An unhealthy, feral attachment. Look at her (and Molly, believe me, I looked), looks sixty, and she’s barely forty. But then her husband was a chunk of a man, and she is but a waif. Believe me, she has someone, and that someone cares enough about our old Mrs. Oldacre to keep coming back to see she hasn’t choked on her own vomit after a day of drinking. Enough to risk his own safety. I know this person exists, all that's left is to coax him out.”

Molly took a moment to absorb the information. “Then you know who our Mr. Smith is. Does the Yard know?” 

Not yet,” quipped Sherlock. “And it would be best kept this way for a while longer, or the evidence will be entirely circumstantial.” 

“But what about his next of kin? They’d want to know!” 

“The only next of kin he’s got is sitting in the back room of the Red Cock drinking herself into a stupor. I’ve checked. He’s got no one, came up through the orphanage system. She, on the other hand… there’s work to be done. And not by the Yard.”

“Besides,” he smirked, “I think you like this cloak and dagger business. Fancy going on an interview with me again tomorrow? You have the afternoon shift, yes?”

The cab rolled to a stop, Sherlock leaned over to pay the cabbie, and stepped out after Molly into the gentle shade of London dusk. She didn’t dare turn around to look, but knew as surely as if the air between them was conducting skin-to-skin -- he followed a pace behind until she stopped at the door of her brick Victorian and unlocked it. She walked up a flight of stairs to her apartment, unlocked that door as well and stepped through it -- and only then dared to look -- 

Sherlock lingered on the other side of the door frame, hands in pockets, a worryingly somber expression on his face. 

“Are you hungry?” she asked tentatively. “Want to come in for a bit of food?”

Molly was startled by his sudden, clear, beautiful laughter. His right hand came out of his pocket and he pinched his nose. “No Molly, not hungry. Don't eat when working, remember? Thank you. I will be in touch tomorrow morning, we’ll follow up. Good night.” He turned on his heel and was off, his coat billowing behind him, hovering above the stairs. 

It took an effort to close her own door quite quickly, but she did do it in time, a full three seconds before she heard the slam of the door and a click of the lock on the front entrance. 

 

*  
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq., sat in his rapidly cooling evening bath. His left hand was hugging his knees, and he held a rather soggy fag in his right. So much for not smoking (he pushed the cigi butt into the ashtray on the floor and used his big toe to turn on the hot water). If you’re Sherlock Holmes, there’s an unwritten contract that stipulates: every day, one has to get up in the morning and be collected, precise and surprising, astonishing and devastatingly right. Except that he didn’t get up every day, was alarmingly easy to rattle, and had been devastatingly, surprisingly wrong. 

Well, John was onto him. John knew who he really was -- a mess, a procrastinator, a short-cut taker, who’s used precision and traces of wit to hide the depth of his disfunction, which in turn hid just how broken and callous he's been, which, in their own bloody turn, covered how empty he's felt underneath all that. Feelings. Feelings! Dull. 

He rubbed his hand on the knee, trying to rid himself of an unwanted sensation -- memory, with no permission from him what-so-ever, of guiding her forward, recalling the gentle pressure on fingertips and his palm… That had to be stopped. Stopped. 

Another cigarette in the ashtray. He glanced at the filthy piece of glass where the remains of a half the pack now resided, and made a hard break. The case. Lexi Oldacre and her husband, the old Oldacre, gone on a whiskey run up to Scotland a few days ago. No cell phone. Disappeared. Distillery doesn’t expect him ‘till yesterday anyhow. Why would he leave so early? And no cell phone. And a wife that’s not worried. Too obvious. But motive? Surely not an accident. She is a mess, if it were an accident, she would be sobbing into the emergency operator’s ear piece, instead of calmly shopping for an electrical saw. 

He clearly needed someone to talk to, cigarettes weren’t doing it. Molly -- too dangerous. Seeing her tomorrow as is and have to limit time with her. John… a pain point. He lifted himself out of the bath and reached for a towel. 

There. He had it. Definitely owns a bar. Definitely dead a few days. Definitely a local. Fits Oldacre’s description, but wife is indifferent, a small little thing, and is hated by everyone. Must have an accomplice. And no backstory. No reason to bother Gregson until there’s a backstory. “Wonderful,” said his inner John. “Greatest brain of our times but can’t put two and two together. Would be a bit late when there’s another corpse, now wouldn’t it?” 

Sherlock shrugged into his favorite dressing gown, walked down the hall and flung himself onto the sofa. He could get dressed and go ferret the mystery accomplice, but something was off. He felt a strange ambivalence about the case. It’s decided then: he’ll let his homeless network do its job. He’ll wait. 

A moment of doing nothing, then, in a precise and habitual motion of rummaging under the couch he pulled out _Obscure Diseases of the Brain and Disorders of the Mind_ and opened it. He was going to finish that nonsense even if his brain went numb from it -- or, he grumpily admitted to himself before diving back into the book -- because it did just that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John and Mary lead a quiet domestic life. Sherlock investigates Lexi Oldacre. Molly does as her great oaf of a surly friend tells her (an astonishingly PG chapter, sorry)._

*

Mrs Idelston hadn't been feeling herself for about a week. This hadn’t in any manner interfered with her excellent memory, which she proudly showed off reciting her week's trials and miseries to one Dr John Watson, GP, in excruciating detail.  At first, John listened attentively, waiting for an opening to inform her of the just completed laboratory order.  He finished his thorough exam ten minutes ago and had little doubt Mrs Idelston's troubles were brought on by an errant virus. However, she was his last patient for the day, and he didn't have it in him to interrupt. He also heard his phone buzz at least twice in the last half hour — he knew exactly why  — and knew that having an excuse to not confirming the reason was good.

The wall clock chimed five. The expected opening in Mrs Idelston's monologue wasn’t forthcoming, and John’s attention began to wander.  His thoughts first turned to Mary -- who was going to pick up Emma at quarter to six -- and then to his slightly future self -- tidying, locking up, shops, the route home, what he’d do for supper.  He was a bit startled to notice the old lady in the patient’s chair looking at him expectantly, but there it was, his opening.  “Mrs Idelston, if these show nothing, you might still want to come back for an x-ray…”

*

After the satisfied Mrs Idelston left the office, John sat there for a minute staring into nothing, his hands folded on his lap.  

"Right so," he said into the void and got up just as Mary was swinging the door open.  "You alright, love?" -- she knew he wasn't, and was letting him know she knew -- and would be there if he needed her.  

"A long day," he said cradling her head, kissing her soft, homey crown.  "I think we should go to the country for the weekend," she responded.  "Rent a room, take a walk, have a picnic.  Sod the sodding lawn."  She smoothed his cheek, and he finally smiled.   "We shall definitely do that."

*

John had already taken out the plates and cutlery -- all that was left was to take the fish out of the oven -- when he heard Mary and Emma come in. He quickly dried his hands and rushed to the door, picked up Emma from Mary’s arms and lightly touched his lips to his wife’s.

Emma made a gurgling noise and swatted his face -- he turned his head to kiss the sweet baby palm.  “We are going to wash hands, aren’t we, darling?” he cooed at Emma, his mind completely calm and warm and entirely serene for the first time that day -- “We’re all set to eat, heart,” he told Mary, who at the moment was standing behind him, her head on his shoulder and arms round his mid-section.  He felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket.  That would be four.

Today was a good day. Probably because he slept most of the night.  For once he was spared lying awake, countless witty replies to Sherlock floating through his fevered consciousness. Yes, it was a perfectly good, dull day. One of many similar days, where he had what he needed and always wanted -- support, warmth, love, security. Didn’t he always want that? That addiction to adrenaline -- it was nice when it could be indulged -- but as any addiction, the healthy course of action would be to dispose of it.  

The way he was purging himself of this particular vice perhaps wasn’t the wisest, but certainly was powerful: disappointment is a close relative of grief, and grief -- grief was an old familiar foe -- John knew perfectly well how to deal with that.  Loads of experience, thankyouverymuch.  Loads.

When his mother, the center of their family (which no one realized until she was no more), succumbed to pancreatic cancer, he enlisted. Clearly, he was the one with the healthy coping mechanism.  Harry turned to drink. When Sherlock played birdie and jumped off that bloody roof (his teeth still clenched at the thought), he pulled himself together, saw the proverbial trick cyclist, reconstructed his life, worked and fought through it, took it head on — and in the end was rewarded — by having met Mary.   But all that was very different.

This was a new kind of grief, because he hasn’t really lost anyone, not this time. Sherlock was well and alive, a mere phone-call and a cab ride away.  This was a confusing different that needed sorting out rather than suppressing away.  Unfortunately John was spectacularly good at the latter, and rather shit at the former.

Sherlock was constantly in the background of his overactive mind; a shadow that wouldn’t leave him when he saw patients or nuzzled his wife’s neck.  Thoughts of him were sometimes accompanied by dull pain in the pit of his stomach, which would only dissipate with Emma in his arms. John’s lost belief in his invincible best friend was a splinter seated deeply within him, niddling him, hurting him, inflaming, and yet he wasn’t ready to pull the splinter out and heal.

He was the happiest and most peaceful he’s ever been in his life with his daughter and wife by his side; he was also heartbroken.

*

Mary was washing up before going to bed, Emma was long asleep, and John was lounging in the drawing room chair, a glass of whiskey beside him, grim expression on his face, phone displaying the last few form Sherlock before him.

**“a country excursion, graveyard stalking required. leave tomorrow at 7 o’clock. SH”**

**“booking tickets on Virgin Express to Peterborough. SH”**

**“might want to bring medical kit. SH”**

**“be ready by 7, will pick up on the way to King’s Cross.  SH”**

John rubbed his forehead.  Hard.

**“Sorry mate. Emma’s getting shots, Mary’s going to be out for the night, can’t do. -JW”**

He turned off his phone, plugged it in to charge, and left the room.

*

In another part of town, but at about the same time, Molly was busy doing exactly nothing. Well, she was lying on her living room sofa in ratty pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt, her Kindle dropped to the floor, right by her cold mug of tea. The mug made a pretty sand-colored circle on the printout of an article Molly was supposed to be reviewing, but really, Molly had socks on her mind. Wool socks were truly a blessing, she thought and wiggled her toes.  Her feet were dry, warm, and cozy.  It was unbearably hot just a few days ago, but the heat broke, and the evenings had finally turned chilly.  Now she was supremely comfortable — absentmindedly threading her fingers through Toby’s fur — he was nested on top of couch’s back.  Molly’s attention was focused, but she wasn’t immediately conscious on what — actually, she was listening to the muffled television sounds that came from her upstairs neighbors — some news program.  The cadence of anchor’s voice was soothing. Hard day’s night.  She really ought to move to the bed.  

No. Instead, her mind wandered to earlier that day, when she just sat behind her desk to type up a report for Kate Morrison, newly dead that same morning in an unfortunate disregard for red lights.   She didn’t get very far before she was interrupted by DI Gregson knocking on her door.  She knew Steph quite well, worked with him on multiple occasions over the years.  Gregson was precise, didn’t bother her excessively, and normally didn’t complain too much about Sherlock meddling.  Not today.  Today Steph did nothing but complain, and looked very little like his usual composed self, sighing loudly and gesticulating somewhat too enthusiastically over folders Molly supplied.

“Mols, I’ve had the list of all local bar owners for miles around; had every pub on the list checked.  Personally.” He sounded out the “er” into a stretchy whiny exclamation.  “I don’t know where that git gets his information. No bar owners missing; no missing persons remotely like your stiff in recent reports.  No bankers, no barristers, no benefits chaps. Mols, unless our headless bloke has been feeding the fishes for over a week, or you determined his age all wrong, he ain’t a bar owner, and he ain’t from London!”

*

She heard the hall door open, and immediately sat up.  The pen with which she scribbled in the margins earlier rolled off her chest and with uncanny aim landed in her mug. Tea splashed all over the printout; Molly frowned.  Disapproving Toby jumped off the sofa and went to hide by the curtains.

“Sherlock?” — she called cautiously, but there he was — already standing in the doorway, hands in pockets, of course. “Hello, Molly” — he said in an even, inflexible tone.  Fixed his eyes on her meager person (she folded her shoulders under his gaze — just a tad, but then straightened herself out to nearly ballet posture — because what?), then plopped himself on the sofa next to her, his x-ray vision dulled a bit — all the pertinent information apparently processed — “Mind if I spend the night? No need to give up your room, I am working.”  He produced a stack of papers and a tablet from  inside his coat and set them on her coffee table.  Molly rubbed her eyes and her forehead, then got up and went to the kitchen. “Dear, kind, wonderful Molly,” she pitched her voice high pretending to be an impossibly polite and cheerfully demented version of her friend,  “would you be kind and fantastic and amazing again, for a gazillionth time, and let me use your flat because I am bored at Baker Street” — her voice went back to normal.  “Would you like some tea?" she sighed.  "I am boiling a fresh pot."

“And biscuits” — Sherlock replied flatly.  “That’d do nicely.”

*

Today Sherlock was suspiciously pleasant. Molly kept pondering his good mood while she carried out the tea tray laid with proper porcelain.  Stealing a glance at Sherlock while setting another dessert plate with neatly arranged biscuits on the tray, she decided he definitely wants something.  Something she wouldn’t really want to do -- certainly.  Molly added a scone to the plate.  She had fresh scones, and knew Sherlock would want one, even if he was working.  The “I don’t eat when I work” adage didn’t apply to snacks -- and Sherlock was an incessant snacker. Sherlock used her apartment for a bolt hole quite often; she knew he was often there when she was at work, he didn't bother to hide it.  She resigned to it not meaning much -- he need space that didn't remind him of John, she supposed, and her apartment was suitable.  Nowadays Molly had the art of leaving snacks out for Sherlock down to a T -- neatly sliced cold cuts just so; a plate with a few pieces of bread on the edge of her kitchen table, seemingly forgotten -- and voila, later she would spy a piece of bread folded in half with a slice of meat inside disappear into Sherlock’s cavernous pocket on his the way to the door. Sometimes he would even use a piece of parchment to hold it.

Now with a biscuit between his teeth, leaning deep over the little table before the sofa, knees wide and attention hyper-focused, Sherlock was busy setting the scene.  His fingers quickly and precisely covered Molly’s coffee table with an intricate arrangement of paper: copies of birth certificates, marriage records and land deeds; photocopies of peerage records; excerpts from heraldry trees and references; a coroner’s report, a report from a fire chief.  With a final flourish Sherlock placed a few dark and grisly photographs at the very top.

“There, Molly.  Pay attention please.”  Molly, sat next to him, cradled her tea a little tighter. “I will tell you a little story if you promise to be a good girl and take tomorrow off.”  

*

Of course she agreed to take the day off, she was such a pushover.  In total darkness, she set her alarm (they were due at King’s Cross at half seven), took off her comfy socks and got under the covers -- all the while thinking of the “little story” Sherlock just told her.  The story was unsettling and made her heart cold. She went over it again in her head, making mental notes to add items to the kit she’d bring along tomorrow.  

*

Twenty four years ago Lexi was a bright young woman from a very, very wealthy family.  Her parents, grandparents, and ancestors immemorial occupied Norwood Manor for three or four hundred years, if not longer.  Lexi was an only child at an end of a very long and prosperous line.

A delicate flower with a penchant for adventure novels, Lexi (Alexandria Elizabeth Sophia Elvington) was educated in the best boarding schools of England.  She spoke three languages; danced, painted watercolor and played the piano; did well at dressage and even sailed competitively.  She was due to start reading classics at Oxford in the fall when somehow, somewhere, one Jonas Oldacre crossed her path. An orphan, a dishonorably discharged soldier, a vagabond without any discernable profession, Oldacre swept Lexi off her feet and persuaded her to elope, whilst carrying off a few choice family jewels.  Lexi never showed up at Oxford.  For years, her parents hadn’t a clue of her whereabouts.  They were hoping and praying she was alive, but the uncertainty gnawed on them and aged them before their time.

Old and new newspaper articles advertising for information, bank records, telephone interview transcripts -- all of these, cleverly arranged for Molly’s perusal told one grim story: Lexi disappeared only to reappear over twenty years later a withered alcoholic owner of a run-down London pub, with a husband who vanished without a trace, a heiress to a manor house burnt to the ground this last spring, along with its inhabitants whose charred remains Molly was to attempt to examine tomorrow.

*

At three in the morning Sherlock quietly opened Molly’s bedroom door and peeked inside.  There she was, limbs all over the place, lips parted, blanket nearly thrown, breathing evenly.  He wasn’t sure why he had to look, but he did.  She was a friend.  One of the few he had left, perhaps the only one. Her home was a friendly abode where he felt … settled. He was just going to make sure she is alright, that she gets enough sleep before tomorrow’s long day.

Watching her, for no discernible reason what-so-ever, Sherlock thought of Lexi and her unfortunate love.  He smirked, his lips involuntarily pressed together. A dangerous motivator, that thing, a disease, and Lexi Oldacre was an excellent example of ravages this irrational abomination could wreck.  Lexi loved, unabashedly and stupidly, and ended up alone, in a garbage heap, cradling a bottle of moonshine. Or rum.  Yes, definitely rum.

Molly turned in her sleep, smacked her lips and pulled the blanket all the way to her chin. Something in Sherlock’s stomach lurched.  He should have had another biscuit, he thought, and it isn’t too late to fix it. In any case, he would always make sure his heart (and gut) was ruled by his head, and not the other way around. Molly was useful, that’s all.  Because John was not available.

He carefully closed the door, applying just enough pressure for the hinges not to squeak, and went back to the sofa.  He’d dose a few hours, no harm there.  The pieces were coming together nicely.  Another day or two of work, and the puzzle would be complete.

_“… disease may revive things long forgotten; a language long unspoken and unthought in; or blot out entirely all traced of definite proportions of time gone by”_

_Obscure Diseases of the Brain and Disorders of the Mind, p. 366_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It all has to get pretty sad before things improve, doesn't it? Next chapter: adventure, NSFW bits, glimpses of happy end to come (may be). Promise!
> 
> Thank you so much to the patientest ApproachingChaos for proofreading this for me, and the best and the loveliest [ AllTheBellsInVenice's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice) for looking over my John-parts! <3
> 
> Please let me know what you think -- all comments are extremely valuable and are heartily appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Molly gets to meet Mr & Mrs Holmes, a small town chief of police and a few charred corpses. There are ruins of a burned-out house to examine in less than ideal circumstances. Sherlock has to walk a few miles with a body in his arms, and is rewarded for his obstinance._

*  
A minute before her alarm was to go off, her mobile buzzed.

**Pack an overnight bag. SH**

Molly growled, actually growled. Bad enough she had to take Friday off, the git was going to take over her weekend, too. She pulled her second pillow over her head and yelped a bit. Didn’t help. She lay quiet for a moment with her face covered by a pillow, hands over it, a packing list forming involuntarily in her mind. Then her alarm blared. The refrain of her life, eh?

When she walked out into the living room, it was empty. Papers, maps, photographs Sherlock brought the night before were gone. Molly’s coffee table was clear, mugs and the empty biscuit plate moved to the sink. Even crumbs were collected. Last night's article she was reviewing and the Kindle she wasn’t reading were arranged in a neat stack on the sofa. She made a mental note to pack an unopened package of _petit ecoliers_ into her purse. Good behavior should always be rewarded, thought Molly, and the thought actually made her smile.

*  
At precisely six fifty-seven, with a rather stupid grin on her face, Molly stood outside holding her shoulder bag off shoulder, gripping the handles with both hands. At six fifty-nine a taxi pulled up to the kerb, and Sherlock, with his hair still damp, in a crisp gray pin-striped shirt, a fresh jacket and pressed trousers swung the door open and slinked back farther into the cab.

The sight of him, so effortlessly immaculate, made Molly feel instantly declasse, wiped the grin off her face and prompted her shoulders to fold onto themselves. Oh well, she’ll deal. She swayed her head, landing her mane wholly on her right shoulder, and that helped shake the feeling off. She plopped her bag on the empty seat to the left.

“King’s Cross, please. Hullo, Molly,” she heard from her bag's general direction. That damnable gooseflesh appeared on the skin beneath her light summer coat, and she brushed a hand over her left arm to make it go away. The taxi merged into traffic.

“Coffee, Sherlock. You’re getting me coffee, a large one, with cream and cardamom, the moment we get to the station.”

“Sure thing,” he said looking directly into her eyes, his lips quirking. He quickly caught himself though, and a moment later his eyes had focused intently on his smartphone.  
Molly reclined into the seat of the cab, resolved on keeping all the biscuits she packed entirely to herself.

 

*  
The man behind him was beyond irritating. Seats in this carriage were back-to-back, and the air around Sherlock's seat reeked of stale smoke, artificial mint, and sulfur. The man was clearly under an impression that chewing gum can hide halitosis and mask a horrific smoke habit. Sherlock summoned his quite significant willpower to not turn around and shout at the man to move. He was going to be civil, measured, composed, and that would definitely get him back into Molly’s good graces. He can prove to her that he’s … good. Considerate. Interesting. Fine to be around, just fine. Will not embarrass her.

He felt bile rising in his throat, and “Sherlock Holmes made one enormous mistake” echoed with painful familiarity in his mind. That’s right. That’s you, you’re the Mr Holmes who can’t get anything right, who’s so damn proud of his big brain it blinds him, trips him into making one mistake after another. Stupid, stupid.

His hands arranged themselves into fists, but he made an effort, and uncurled his fingers.

This morning being measured and composed was particularly hard. Home office owed him loads of favours, but this particular favour was complicated, and his patience was wearing thin. As usual, he wanted the impossible, worse, he *knew* what he was asking for was impossible in the time frame he required. On top of that, he realized he would have to stop at his parents’ cottage once they get off the train. All because (and no one shall ever know this) Sherlock Holmes was a dolt, and ran out of a particular reagent for testing for inorganic substances in ash (he developed it himself, and a small amount was kept at the cellar laboratory at the elder Holmes’ estate).

He closed his eyes and steepled fingers under his chin. He needed to abstract himself from the odor behind, and one way to do this was to concentrate on the heart-piercing smell to his left. Molly.

There, in the corner, she had her knees folded neatly, cradled her too-large cup of coffee in one hand while manipulating a cheap ballpoint pen in the other, and was focused on a print-out from Lancet sprawled on the little table by the window. Artfully looking through eyelashes without turning his head, he saw her suck on the tip of her pen, and get momentarily distracted by the sight of fields rapidly flying past their window.

“What are you looking at? You’re no good for her, not a bit, not at all. Do your job and sod off,” he heard John’s crisp voice as if he was sitting just behind him. Alas, it was still the nauseatingly dysfunctional security guard. With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock started his smell dissociation routine anew.

 

*  
Really, Sherlock was actually sweet. Biscuits did make an appearance in the middle of their train ride. She didn’t plan it, it just happened -- they were having a heated discussion of proper dissection technique, as one does. Sherlock surprised her yet again -- she’s never seen him with a scalpel, but the way he talked about it, you could’ve sworn he’d been dissecting cadavers and putting them together daily, sometimes resulting in new forms of life, probably. She was particularly galled that he had a favorite retractor type. It made him completely irresistible, making Molly all too conscious of the need to resist throughout the conversation.

In the middle of one particularly vivid description (Sherlock was talking with his hands) she became enthralled a moment longer than polite with his flying digits, blushed, and to cover her ever inappropriate thoughts pulled out the sweets.

It worked, as no cutting remark followed -- instead, she was gifted a “these are perfect, Molly,” and a sound chomping.

Too soon it was time to disembark.

They rented a small Fiat right out of the station, and were quickly on their way to -- Molly was surprised to learn -- Sherlock’s family house.

“It’s on the way,” declared Sherlock after Molly’s startled “Why?” -- and he chose not to elaborate after she asked him about ½ a dozen follow-up questions. Jerk.

“I suppose you don’t need me to navigate?”

“Nope.”

Silence.

“So what’s the plan? What are we actually doing today, Sherlock?”

“Building a case.”

“For what?”

“For the defense.”  
“You could be a little more forthcoming, you know,” said Molly conversationally, turning car radio controls to BBC One. It was nearly noon. The day was passing too quickly.

The light before train tracks was amber a while, and they rolled to a stop.

*  
“Molly! So glad to see you! Come in, come in” -- Mrs Holmes gave her a hearty hug as soon as she stepped into a small foyer, and Mr Holmes kissed her on both cheeks, the French way, after taking her coat.

Sherlock disappeared immediately, while Molly was instantly swept into the kitchen.

“You _will_ have lunch with us. I insist!” Mrs Holmes’ large hands were quick and restless, tidying up, taking out rosemary potatoes from the oven, serving sour cream in a fancy silver antique dish, arranging cold cuts on a platter -- all at the same time.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” squeaked Molly, eyeing the kitchen cupboards wondering if she’d fit in the corner one (and whether it would be polite to stay there indefinitely).

“I don’t eat when I’m working, Mother,” yelled Sherlock from the parlor. He poked his head into the kitchen, saw the mad activity and added, much less emphatically, “anyway, it’s too early to lunch. Molly, we’re leaving *now*!”

Mrs Holmes gave him a look, and Sherlock’s face disappeared. Molly heard him ascend the steps somewhere inside the house.

“I don’t care!”, yelled Mrs Holmes looking up, and handed Molly a dish with potatoes. She lowered her voice to the sweetest timbre imaginable -- “Could you be a dear and put this on the dining table? And do ask Father to come back here, thank you love!”

*  
Holmses had a sizable back garden bordering a pretty little wilderness. The nearest neighbors were far, and a tallish hedge separated their lands from the Holmses’ cottage.

Eventually it was decided (Mrs Holmes had declared) that the weather is outstanding, and therefore lunch is best served outside. Sherlock’s protestations were ignored completely and utterly, to Molly’s amusement. Doing as they were told, the three Holmses and Molly sat in the garden, surrounded by blooming roses and camellias, next to a lovely copse, enjoying the view, the weather, and each other’s company. Well. Trying to, in any case.

Mummy Holmes could order her son to stay, but there was no power in the world that would make him pretend he was staying of his own volition. Sherlock sat with his hands folded in his lap, demonstrably ignoring all lunchables, and apparently fighting hard the temptation to pull out his mobile, which chirped merrily at random intervals throughout lunch. Molly caught Sherlock’s eye once and nearly choked on her food because of the cheeky side-ways grin she received. She could swear Mr Holmes saw the whole thing --

Mrs Holmes was busy telling Molly a rather convoluted story from Sherlock’s childhood, where he and Mycroft mixed their socks, which in turn lead to their mother solving the mystery of disappearing milk bottles (“see, dear, Sherlock was fond of experimenting with glass-blowing technique in his pre-teens”). Or may be it was trampled gardenias? Molly lost the thread long ago, and was now simply enjoying the sonorous and reassuring sound of Violet Holmes’s voice.

“Mummy, time,” suddenly said Sherlock and shoved his iPhone under his mother’s nose. Surprisingly, this time Mrs Holmes complied at once.

 

*  
So this is why they journeyed so far North -- and that’s why Sherlock let them stay for lunch --  
when they arrived at Lower Norwood village, the exhumation was still under way. The coffins have been delivered to the police examiner’s office all right, but the charred remains of their occupants were still being carefully laid out on the examination table.

Sherlock had used his wide stride to measure the small foyer oh, about a hundred times in the past hour, and yet the bodies were still unavailable. Molly re-read the thorny article on post-mortem DNA extraction and genetic abnormality evaluation and was deep in thought. On the one hand the technique had a lot of potential for cutting down on unidentified death cases; on the other -- there was nothing in the article to suggest why someone would live for decades with a genetic abnormality before succumbing to it in random circumstances. She lifted her eyes off the sheet of paper and instantly lost her train of thought. Sherlock often did this to her -- instantly occupied all her senses by his mere presence without so much as by your leave.

The clock on the wall chimed four times. Sherlock stopped pacing and abruptly opened the door to the examination room, startling the technicians working there. The two were sent by the home office, they were top at what they did, and a procedure with a protocol that would normally take weeks to fulfill was compressed into less than twenty four hours.

“Molly,” called Sherlock, “we must start now.”

The technicians still sifted through the coffins, while Sherlock and Molly busied themselves examining what remained of the upper bodies of victims. Molly’s hair was now pulled into a tight ponytail, she wore a lab coat and exam gloves. Mr Immaculate was sporting gloves too, but ignored the offered lab grab, the fop. Molly swore quietly. Why did he always have to look so perfect? Bastard.

She was more than familiar with the police’s official report: the investigation revealed fire and a consequent coal-burning stove explosion started by a carelessly disposed cigarette in the kitchen. Near-incineration for the staff (cook, 42, and a part-time maid, 27 who was in the kitchen with the cook at the time incident), and death by smoke inhalation of the owners of the estate, Lord and Lady Elvington, 71 and 64 respectively. Their burns were post-mortem, according to the investigative documents.

The estate itself burned to the ground, Molly saw the grim photographs, including body positions -- lords of the manor prostrated desperately near the dining room latticed windows -- which mysteriously remained shot during the tragedy.

The bones were badly burned, yes, but Molly had a sharp eye, was meticulous and thorough, and knew what she was doing. Still, this examination proved to be far from easy, and not because there were so few actual remains left. Sherlock was hovering behind her, crowding her a bit much -- so much so that at times she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. The git was literally breathing down her neck! After half hour of this, she turned to him with her eyes narrowed and mouse pursed. It worked, and he took a small step back, his face sporting some sort of a grimace. What was it? Was he embarrassed? Good.

There was also a bit of soft tissue left to sample. She carefully and methodically collected bone chips from various places; made measurements, transferred samples onto containers. “May I?” asked Sherlock pointing to the material harvested from Lady Elvington’s gut. Molly nodded, and Sherlock disappeared into the corner of the room where, Molly saw, some the lab equipment was sat up next to a chemical hood. She continued her examination.

*

They worked, and worked, and worked. It was close to eleven, and Molly felt like her brain had turned to mush eons ago. She was also very hungry.

“Sherlock, I think we’re done for the night,” she offered. To her surprise, Sherlock didn’t argue. “Indeed,” he said pulling off the latex glove off his left hand finger by long sinewy finger. He snapped his small notebook shut, and moved it to his inside pocket. “Shall we?” -- he held the door open.

Half to midnight they were at the small cottage B&B where Sherlock made reservations for two rooms. Because they were so late, one of the rooms was given away to a holidaying couple (Sherlock snorted at the news), and they were left with only the one room. For the both of them. Molly sighed, but she didn’t really care. First off, she was too tired to have any emotions on the subject: to be upset or to be excited about the prospect of sharing a room with her friend of a detective. Second of all, it wouldn’t matter anyhow -- her detective friend never slept. She wondered peripherally why he bothered reserving two rooms at all, but then plopped her overnight bag on the chair by the bed, and started opening it -- and was rudely interrupted by the said friend.

“Leave it. We’re going out.” Any hope Molly had of Sherlock actually stopping at the pub to get a morsel of food were rudely dashed, when the detective, grabbing her by the elbow, led them in a direction demonstrably opposite to that leading into the village.

*  
It was bonkers -- going in the middle of the night to examine burned-out remains of a medieval estate. Yet they went, and took a shortcut. Through a forest. Molly in her city slippers, Sherlock in his usual black oxfords. Guided by the narrow light of Sherlock’s torch, they moved swiftly, Molly happy she didn’t have to think, but could simply follow Sherlock with her mind firmly switched off. Somehow they were lucky, and after about half-hour, with their limbs intact, the ruin of the Norwood estate loomed before them, brightly lit by nearly full moon. 

What Sherlock was hoping to see there in the uncertain light of the moon was beyond Molly. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and not .. be. Not move, not stifle her yawns, not think. Instead, she valiantly attempted to follow Sherlock’s movements around the ruins. There they were, in the grand foyer open to all elements -- starlight shining through the collapsed roof and passages half-obstructed by the fallen beams and remnants of armature. Acting as if the debris wasn’t there, Sherlock moved around the ground floor collecting pieces of material, sniffing, making short marks in his notebook, and not uttering a word. Eventually it occurred to Molly that it didn’t matter if she was or wasn’t there, and might as well, well, go. She mumbled her astute observation with as much force as she could, but Sherlock was too consumed in his work, or pretended to be -- and betrayed no sign of hearing what she said. 

*  
_In what does mental derangement consist? Is it an affection of the moral, intellectual, emotional, or perceptive faculties, and are the reason, judgement, comparison, memory and imagination most implicated in the malady? Is there a type of insanity manifesting itself more in_ conduct, _than in the_ ideas? _What is the nature, where the seat of alienation of mind?  
(ODoBaDotM, p. 31)_

It was stupid of him to go searching for oil stains in the middle of the night, he conceded. But there was going to be so much to do during the day tomorrow -- reagents would be ready, witnesses would have to be found and interviewed, reburial of corpses would have to happen, he had to try and take care of this now, now before they all get in his way. The picture was almost, almost, almost complete. A little more, and he’ll have it. Sherlock turned around and realized that he’s talking to himself. Molly wasn’t there. Oh.

He directed his torch to illuminate the rubbished corners of the once grand room he was standing in -- but she wasn’t there. Oh!

He backtracked carefully to step where he stepped before -- over the charred chunks of wood and twisted metal -- back into the entrance hall. “Molly!” he yelled. Nothing. All remained quiet. “Molly?!”

He repeated his torch trick in the great hall, and this time with success -- there, slumped in the corner, was one Ms Molly Hooper, arms wrapped around herself, fast asleep. His heart shrank for a moment. He felt so guilty, and so awash in self-hatred that he managed to stave this entire time he was busy working. As usual, all he could do is think of himself and his needs. Molly needed to be in bed hours ago, she will never do anything with him again, how could he be so callous and stupid. “You live in the world of goldfish, you become one” concluded his inner Mycroft. He shook his head. This made no sense.

Sherlock came over to where Molly was asleep, and as gently as he could tried to rouse her. She muttered something unintelligible, he lifted her hands and put them round his shoulders, then grabbed her waist to lift her -- she woke up while he was busy trying to get her upright --  
“Can we go now?” she half-begged taking her arms off of him and trying to cover her yawn.

“We’re going, we’re going, Molly” he immediately responded offering her his arm. Quickly, they left the ruins, but he wasn’t entirely sure Molly was awake. He had better keep her close.

Back in the forest, which was lower than the estate grounds, the fog moved in. It was much more difficult to navigate now, and Sherlock’s dark thoughts about his general numbskullness intensified. No matter. He persevered, holding an almost useless torch in one hand, supporting sleep-walking Molly with his other. And then it happened.

Molly tripped.

She fell.

And she didn’t immediately get up.

If he didn’t have to rectify his stupidity by helping Molly, he’d probably end up committing harakiri on the spot (“I’d like to see you try, little brother” - “Shut up!”).

“Molly, Molly, what hurts?” he nearly cried, crouching before her, cradling her small form in his arms. She mumbled something, moving to raise herself off the ground. “Can you get up? Lean on me, lean on me” -- but she couldn’t get up, even leaning on him. Something with her left ankle. “Oh, stupid” -- he shoved his torch into his pocket, and lifted Molly up, bridal style. She gasped, and he shushed her, dead with worry.

“You bewitched the fog, admit it, Molly” he rasped to her near running to their lodgings. “You’re secretly an elf, aren’t you?” And he shushed her again, unsure he’d be able to handle her response.

A tense twenty-five minutes later, he burst into the cottage (it was nearly quarter four in the morning), demanding ice, water and bandages in the most imperial tone available to him. The astonished and incensed proprietors complied immediately, only attempting to admonish him once the said items were at Sherlock’s disposal in his and Molly’s room.

“Leave,” he ordered in response to feeble reminders that they have other guests and suggestions it’s mildly inappropriate to create ruckus of these proportions in quaint English villages. Only then he noticed that Molly’s still in his arms, and they’re stood in the middle of their rather smallish cottage room, barely lit by the bedside lamp.

He had to put her down, had to see what’s wrong with her leg, with her foot, and so that’s exactly what he did. “Sherlock, I think it’s my ankle,” volunteered his patient, but Sherlock was already on it. He removed her slipper, washed her foot using the mini sponge-bath provided by the innkeepers, and was now stroking her ankle ascertaining whether anything was broken or not. Other than a minor scrape, there were no visible marks of injury, and his heart relaxed.

His heart relaxed, but his hands continued to stroke her foot -- and judging by how quiet she grew, she didn’t mind. Didn’t mind at all.

Avoiding her eyes, concentrating on her leg, he kept stroking, unable to pull away from her skin, unable to stop -- because stopping would amount to admitting his stupidity, his foolishness, his idiocy, the weight and the horror of being him. Therefore there was no path to stopping, instead, his hands moved higher and higher. He was no longer caressing her foot, strictly speaking, he was no longer caressing her leg either, he moved on to her thigh, her supple, gentle thigh, and that is when she put her arms on him, pulled his head to look at her. That was probably the scariest thing he’s done in his life, and he did do quite a few scary things in his lifetime -- here and there -- and yet he did it -- looked her in the eye -- and there -- he saw it there -- his redemption. He leaned in and kissed her, forgetting every voice in his head, every destructive thought vanishing from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooooo sorry i haven't posted for so long! I had this chapter 1/2 written for this entire time. It was going to end slightly after where it ends now, but it was getting waaay too long as is, and if I were to continue, you'd have to wait another year. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who's still reading this!!!!! <3
> 
> And also a huge thank you to AllTheBellsInVenice for looking over parts of these and ApproachingChaos for nagging and nagging to finish. See, it worked!

**Author's Note:**

> All the characters belong either to Sir Conan Doyle, Msr. Simenon, or the BBC. I appropriate and string together, but I own nothing.
> 
> Also, I love London, and England. However, I don't know either half as well as I'd like, and a quarter as well as they deserve, so a lot of these places are... erm. Made up, embellished, or mischaracterized. May be.
> 
> \-- _the very last disclamer_ \---  
>  un-beta-ed, un-brit-picked, so every mistake is mine. But I did show the gist of this story to Bells, and she said it's not as boring as I think -- but she is very, very, very kind -- and lets me borrow courage to work at it and post. So. Go read [ AllTheBellsInVenice's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice) stuff and be unbored. 
> 
> Over and out, yours --


End file.
